


The Hunger Gems

by GalacticCat1



Category: Steven Universe - Fandom
Genre: Crossover, F/F, Pearlnet, jaspearl - Freeform, lapidot if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-19 23:50:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9466127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalacticCat1/pseuds/GalacticCat1
Summary: Pearl is an ordinary girl from District 8, working from sun up from sun down, until her name is chosen for the Hunger Games.There, she meets her new best friend, her worst enemy, and true love- who is which, she has yet to decide.





	

Smoke dots the sky as I walk down the dirty concrete road, a basket full of herbs, fresh bread and cold soup hugged tightly to my stomach. My destination slowly approaches me as the blistering sun burns my skin and allows a layer of sweat to help stick my skirt to my legs. The ragged old house located just outside the suburbs of the District 8 stood firm. Pushing open the unlocked door and wiping my new(ish) boots off on the mat, I cleared my throat and called into the house.

"Doctor Evergreens?" I waited. Slow, steady footprints and the creaking of stairs echoes through the house. A quiet cough marks the entrance of an old man, an old friend. "Julienne!" He beams, grabbing hold of a walking stick resting against a wall. "What kind of presents do you have for me today?" I smile as he lifts the blanket covering the basket. As he chuckles, I explain to him, "My mother thought you might like some turnip soup, since you've been awfully kind to-" "Nonsense!" Doctor Evergreens shushed me with the wave of his hand, guiding me to sit down on the couch.

He laid the basket down on a table which I questioned the stability of, coughing and gathering the herbs out of it. "You're the one who give me the herbs I need to work. I'm just a doctor, doing my job." He winked at me, carrying an armful of leaves and tree bark to a backroom, where they would be boiled, ground and mixed into the medicine I needed to live. "One 14 day dose of extra strength allergen medicine." He emerged with a small bowl filled with leaves drenched in powder, which I knew by now had to be made into tea, which would relieve me of my life-threatening (somewhat embarrassing) sunlight allergy.

"Thank you so much." I thanked him, pouring the leaves into a container and giving him back the bowl." "Don't mention it," the doctor replied. "It takes me about 60 seconds to make, plus I get fresh bread as an added bonus." He tore a chunk of bread out of the loaf, popping it into his mouth. I handed over three dollars for the medicine, a whole days wages just to keep myself alive. "See you next week, Julienne." He opened the door for me as I stepped outside once again into the heat. "Thank your mother for the soup for me, will ya?"

I smiled and replied, "I sure will!" As he was about to close the rotting door, he called out one last thing to me. "And good luck in the Reapings." There was a tone of sorrow in his voice, it must hurt to see the young children go off into the games. I wondered, did any of his children get sent off to play in the Hunger Games? As I was about to reassure him he didn't have to worry, the door closed.

"You'll need it." Was all I heard from behind that closed door.

The old town square in District 8 stood still, each civilian crammed together in the tiny stone square. Few clouds dotted the sky, allowing the hot sun to beat down on the district, heating the already muggy and humid air. I watched as a ridiculously dressed woman stood on the wooden stage, which looked as if the weight of her earrings could be enough to crush the flimsy structure. She was standing and smiling next to 2 jars, each one containing the names of each boy and girl from the district.

"Welcome all to the exciting 67th annual Reaping!" She trilled in an accent so silly it could rival the live chicks waddling around on her hat. The Reapings were old news, I'd seen lots before. First, there was the speech about how lovely District 8 is, and how it's her favourite district. By now I had tuned her out, just as she had began to walk over to pick the two tributes for this years Hunger Games.

That woman was about to change my life.

To start from the beginning, my name is Julienne Oaks, yet I have attained the nickname 'Pearl' from my freakishly impressive ability of finding beach glass and other ocean treasures when walking down the road to work. My days were sadly filled with work, work in the textile factories where you can't see 3 inches in front of your face from the dim lighting, and where the phrase 'lunch break' meant stepping outside to take a deep breath of clean(ish) air, only to be dragged back inside by a Peacekeeper seconds later.

When I would finally be free from the textile factories after 11 hour long shifts, the tattered and torn clothing of my brothers would await me at home. Why was their clothing so damaged? Because of the contribution to the family that they made. They'd go hunting. Hunting. It was basically suicide, just asking for a peacekeeper to grab you and execute you. But, there they were, out everyday, shooting ducks for my father to roast over a fire, or squirrel to chop into stew.

"Come on, sis, we're the ones feeding you." I can remember them saying, so clearly in my head.

"And I'm the one keeping sure that the peacekeepers don't barge down the door." I'd justify myself. True, their game was the main corse for our meals everyday for the 13 years of life I'd lived, but it's not like I didn't-

"Juliana Oaks."

The soft pulse of my heart stopped. I was snapped back to reality by the name pulled out of the Reaping ball. It... It couldn't be me. There were hundreds of names in that ball, the possibility of it being mine was minuscule. Oaks is a fairly common last name, and she said Juliana, not Julienne. I would wait until someone else stepped up, then sigh and be all relieved that it wasnt me.

The woman on stage looked around, waiting for the tribute to step up. After moments of silence, nobody came forward. She looked down to the slip of paper once again, then smiled. "My mistake." She apologized. "Julienne Oaks"

Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit... This wasn't the plan. That someone else never stepped up, I never felt releif. What would my family do... What will I do...

Black dots obscured my vision, brick walls coming down and blocking me off from the rest of the world. Liquid filled my lungs- I couldn't breath. This isn't happening...

I'm too young to die.

Choking on a breath I forced myself to swallow some air taking deeper and deeper breaths to calm myself down. I still wasn't there. In a half state of consciousness, my eyes glossed over, I filled my lungs with another deep breath, the black dots fleeing from my sight.

I felt my legs instinctively walk foreword, gently shoving the people crowded in the square out of my way, but not enough to hurt them. I found myself making eye contact with the woman drawing the names, searching those eyes for a soul. She beamed when she saw me walking up, lending a hand to help me onto the stage. "And, now for the boy tribute!" She trilled, but I didn't hear her. Already I could feel; sense my mothers tears, my fathers cane dropping to the ground and my 3 older brothers gasping.

I told you, that woman was about to change my life.

Emotions are controlling me now, blocking out the world that I don't even notice the other tribute get called up. Evan Thomas, I think it was? Who cares, were dead. Both dead. Deadity dead dead dead. More than just dead. We're dead for an audience, dead to remind others of the imprisonment that the Capitol has over us. Dead because the rich snobs in the Capitol have run out of things to spend money on.

The lady drawing the Reapings smiles and waves to the audience and expects clapping, or some expression of joy, but is instead met with slack jaws and whispers to one another. "Thank you all so much for attending this years Reapings!" The woman, whose hand has now gently grabbed onto my arm, says to the crowd. "And may the odds," she starts in her accent, expecting some audience participation to finish the sentence.

"...be ever in my favour." I whisper, as she gently pulls me offstage.


End file.
